


Winter's End

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander (1986 1991 1994 2000 2007), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Endgame, Flashback, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-27
Updated: 2003-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:59:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Connor's death at his hand, Duncan comes to terms with the true meaning of family and brotherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suzecarol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzecarol/gifts).



> Betaed by elynross and MacGeorge, for which I am very, very grateful. Special thanks to elyn for the title help.

_for Suze_

* * *

 _November 22, 2003_

In the end, Connor was with him, and whether it was Connor's hand that swung the blade, or his own, it didn't matter. The mad priest died as all the others had before him, and the lightning fell on Duncan like a hammer, bludgeoning him into familiar agony.

Afterwards he was alone again, and that, too, was familiar.

Weary to the point of collapse, blessedly numb inside and out, Duncan found his way back out of that place mostly by blind instinct. He knew he looked like death warmed over and couldn't care. Let them arrest him. At worst he'd pass out and they'd put him in a cell somewhere with a bed.

No such mercy came, and no sirens were waiting for him when he stepped out into the deserted street, nor in the seemingly endless four blocks that he walked in a bloody and tattered sweater, carrying a naked blade tucked awkwardly behind his arm. Instead it was an unmarked Mercedes that appeared out of the darkness, idling quietly as it pulled alongside him, headlights dark. Too tired to run, Duncan only stopped and stood waiting, bracing himself for whatever was to come.

There was a gleam in the darkness, reflected starlight on the driver's side window as it glided down. "Mr. MacLeod?" A woman's voice, low and throaty, faintly accented. Something else gleamed: a stark, ancient symbol drawn dark against the pale skin at her wrist. "Dawson sent me. He thought you might need a lift."

Disbelieving, Duncan tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, tucked out of sight. He was surprised to find himself still capable of feeling a chill of fear. Were they going to try to take him back to that place under the ground? Determination rose in him, and he made a silent vow that he would not go down easily, exhausted or not.

"Not exactly his style," he said with deceptive calm, his voice still rough from the screams the brutal Quickening had torn from him. "Why didn't he come himself?"

"He said to tell you he's sorry he couldn't be here, but that he can 'only dance at one wedding at a time.' He also said to tell you he's got a drink waiting with your name on it."

A long ago conversation in a bar in Seacouver flickered at the edges of memory, and Duncan found himself smiling a little. That was Dawson all right. He relaxed fractionally. He really wasn't in the mood to talk to Joe, or anyone, but the car looked roomy and comfortable, and his whole body ached with the thought of being able to sink into the soft leather upholstery and let someone else make the decisions for a while.

"Is this part of your job description?" he asked, weighing options.

"Not generally speaking, no." She smiled tightly. "Let's say I owe you one, for Kell." She glanced back the way he had come. "And you don't have to worry about that, by the way. It's been taken care of."

He hesitated, torn. Experience warned him against trusting any Watcher, even one Dawson vouched for, but he had to admit that the thought of going back to that hotel room alone, to the place where Connor had died, was more than he could face tonight. Then, too, when it came right down to it he wasn't sure if he'd make it to another hotel under his own power—and if they really wanted to take him, he wasn't exactly a difficult target.

Seeing his indecision, the young woman's dark eyes gentled, urging him to trust her. "My name is Jiang Li," she said. "I Watched Jin Ke for almost ten years. Don't expect me to make a habit of this sort of thing, but you can trust me. Let me take you home."

Home. The word was so meaningless in this time and place that Duncan found his lips curving, an ironic smile that he could tell from her face must have looked as empty and bleak as he felt. There was really only one thing left for him to do, and he needed Dawson's help to do it. If she wanted to take him to Dawson, so be it.

"Sure," he said finally, giving in to the blunt demand of his own exhaustion. "Knock yourself out." He opened the back door of the car and got in; the seat was as soft and comfortable as he had imagined, and his whole body groaned in painful relief. He felt as though he'd been beaten within an inch of his life.

Mercifully, she didn't talk to him again, just drove, grey morning beginning to touch the sky between the silent fortresses of concrete and steel as he began to drift, his thoughts slipping back, and back, carried into the past on the inevitable dark river of memory.

* * *

 _Ballachulish, Scotland  
1633_

Duncan MacLeod was dying, not for the first time.

Those ordinary deaths, though—by blade or musket ball or other means—could not compare to this primal, relentless torment of the flesh and soul, this unmaking of self down to the bone, the fiery maelstrom that struck the body again and again like the hammer of heaven. He had forgotten. Somehow, he had blocked it from his mind, the blind terror of helplessness in the face of the storm, the sickening invasion as the raging soul of his enemy sought room in his body and mind. He was dying, but because his flesh was not mortal, he was not allowed the deliverance of death.

At last the lightning released him and he fell to his knees, gasping and retching in the mud.

After a minute, the worst of the tremors passed and he could breathe easier. He heard the approach of hooves, and then, a moment later, the nerve-jarring sense of Presence and Connor's voice. "Easy, now. You're all right." Duncan looked up, and was startled to see that the sky was still pale and grey with the dawn, only a light wind lifting the other man's hair to blow around his face. He'd seen Connor take a Quickening once, and he had taken one himself when he'd been newly reborn and ignorant of what he was, but it still surprised him that the sky should not go black with thunderclouds in such a tempest.

"Connor," he said, his voice sounding as relieved as his kinsman's had. "What took you?"

"Breakfast," Connor shrugged, showing him the brace of rabbits he carried. The momentary concern had vanished, replaced by the other man's usual dry, amused expression. "How was I to know you couldn't keep yourself out of trouble for an hour?"

"Jaesus," Duncan breathed, still shaking, and sat back on his haunches, bracing his hands against his thighs. "Is this what it's always like? I don't remember it being quite so..."

"Terrifying?" Connor was watching him with that familiar, ironic half-smile that Duncan had never quite managed to decipher.

"Aye," Duncan admitted ruefully, not knowing another word for the bone-deep _wrongness_ of feeling another soul writhing and searching for anchor in one's own. "Bloody Sassenach," he muttered, suppressing a shudder of distaste.

"Each time, with each one of us, it is different," Connor told him matter-of-factly. "This one was strong and full of hate. You did well, Duncan." For Connor, it was generous praise indeed, and Duncan felt a little better. Connor offered him a hand and he took it, levering to his feet with some effort. He searched about for his sword and found it flung some distance away, stained with blood and dirt. He wiped it clean and sheathed it, heeding Connor's oft-repeated lessons.

"What now?" he asked, glancing at the Englishman's body, his brilliant crimson coat bright as a beacon against the rocky grey hillside.

Connor considered. "I think we'd best do away with him. If the king's men find him like this, 'twill be the Highlanders who will pay, one way or another."

Duncan grimaced, but nodded, resigned. "I feared you would say that. Where, then?"

"We could be all day trying to dig this ground. Into the loch, I think."

Together they undertook the grim task of wrapping up the corpse and tying it fast in a bundle with several large stones. Duncan's horse was none too sanguine about being asked to carry the burden, but in the end they were able to persuade him to cooperate. They heaved the bundle into the still, dark waters of the loch, where it sank slowly out of sight.

They washed up in the cold water and ate a quick meal in silence, though the meat tasted like ash to Duncan. Connor was unusually taciturn, even for him, and Duncan himself did not feel much like talking. He felt oddly out of sorts, his thoughts disconnected and troubling, full of distant thunder and stark, brief flashes of memory: the shock of violent impact as the lightning stabbed him through...the image of a face, a woman, no one he'd ever known...the sound his sword had made slicing through bone.

All morning they rode north along the shore, crossing the river and rounding the head of the bay near midday before turning south again on the other side. This was familiar country for both of them, and Duncan wondered if Connor was thinking of home, as he was. So close, but they dared not ride any closer; Duncan was still known in Glenfinnan, and would be for a generation.

It seemed impossible that nearly a decade had passed since he had last seen his homeland. So much had changed for him, but in the Highlands, time seemed to amble on at its own pace apart from the rest of the world. He might have been gone only a day for all that had changed.

He thought of his mother and wondered if she still lived; the urge to go to her, to see her one last time, threatened to overwhelm the voice of reason and common sense. Gazing west as he halted his mount at the top of a low rise, he could almost taste the scents of home on the air, the sweet hay and smoky peat smell, the faint, herbal scent of the lavender that grew by the door.

"You will go back one day," Connor said, not looking at him, riding up close beside him. "But your path lies in a different direction now."

"Aye," Duncan answered, breaking his gaze away from the distant hills with effort. "I just wish I could know if she found peace."

Connor glanced at him, then away, mouth tightening fractionally. "Trust me, Duncan. If she lives, she is safer with you gone."

This was an old grief, Duncan knew—one Connor had never elaborated upon. Even that much was more than his teacher would ordinarily have said, and Duncan knew that he was not the only one affected by their return to the Highlands.

"Well," he said with forced cheerfulness, "At least I'm not a foot shorter than I was yesterday."

"Could be worse," Connor agreed, and they rode on. After a moment, he said thoughtfully, "Oh."

Duncan didn't much like the sound of that. "Oh?"

Connor glanced at him, troubled, then wiped the expression away in an instant, shuttering it behind his usual inscrutable look. "It's nothing, really." He considered. "It's just that I forgot to tell you something about—eh, it doesn't matter now."

Duncan reined up again, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Connor," he said warningly. The other man stopped beside him, looking apologetic. "What did you forget to tell me?"

"It's nothing, really." He didn't sound entirely convinced. After a reluctant moment, he said, "Something about the Quickening."

"What about it?"

"I should have warned you. He was English, after all." Connor looked genuinely contrite, an expression that Duncan found quite alarming coming from him.

Stomach sinking with dread, Duncan said in a hushed tone, "What has that got to do with anything?" His imagination began supplying him with a number of possibilities, all of them unpleasant.

"Well, in the Quickening, you absorb another Immortal's essence, his power, all that makes him what he is."

"Aye. So?"

"So, you'd better be careful not to kill too many more English, _Donnchaidh._ Ye never know—ye might turn into one of 'em."

Connor managed to keep a straight face for exactly as long as it took Duncan to realize he was being had—which was about the length of a man's heartbeat. Then Connor was laughing, his low, staccato chuckle, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Not funny," Duncan said in disgust, kicking his horse forward with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

Connor laughed harder, pursuing him, merciless. "Oh, yes it was. If you could have seen your face!"

"You wouldn't know funny if it bit you."

"You see?" Connor addressed his horse in a tone of mock-regret and long-suffering patience. "That's the problem with this new generation. They don't appreciate the subtleties of fine humor."

Duncan rolled his eyes. "And I suppose in your day you were considered the very model of wit."

"In _my_ day! You make me sound like an old relic."

"Oh, I wouldn't say old, exactly..."

"Just a relic, then," Connor challenged.

"It doesn't show," Duncan offered by way of consolation. Then he pretended to consider. "Well, not much, anyway."

 _"Leanaban,"_ Connor said disgustedly. _Infant._

 _"Sean-mhaighdean."_ Duncan maneuvered his horse out of range, but Connor only shot him a look and let it go, the laughter in his eyes winning out over his attempt to look stern. Teasing Connor about the difference in their ages was always guaranteed to get a rise out of his companion. Connor must be more relieved about Duncan's encounter that morning than he'd let on, Duncan thought with a certain satisfaction, if he was willing to let Duncan get away with calling him an old maid.

They rode on for a time, their shadows growing steadily longer beside them on the steep green slope that fell away towards the inlet below, the shared laughter not entirely successful in banishing the feelings of homesickness. But somehow, knowing his melancholy was shared made it easier to bear.

"But how do you really know?" Duncan said at last, feeling each mile that took him further from Glenfinnan, further from the one person who had never lost her faith in him, who had accepted him, loved him in spite of what her church and her fear told her to do. "How can you be sure?"

"That she's better off?" Connor asked, not looking at him.

"Aye."

But Connor only shook his head, laughing a little, a sadder sound now that might have been a substitute for tears. "Trust me, Duncan. Or come to me again in a hundred years, and we'll see if you can still ask me that question. Because I hope so, my friend, I really do."

* * *

He woke somewhere in southern Connecticut, the sun streaming bright through the car windows. The memory had followed him down into a troubled sleep, the faint whisper of the car heater and the quiet rhythm of the tires on the old concrete highway lulling him past fighting, past the will of his body to keep itself awake—but the dreams had waited for him there, and he was not sorry to return to the daylight. By the height of the sun he judged that at least two hours had passed.

He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. "Where are we?"

Jiang Li glanced at him in the mirror. "Almost there."

"There?"

"Dawson's got a place in Deep River." Something in the way her gaze didn't immediately return to the road told Duncan that he'd spoken in his sleep. He looked away, watching the shapes of the bare trees, the blanket of dead leaves beneath them. They rounded a curve in the road, and he could see they were on a hillside, a lake below, its grey surface patterned by the November wind. In his mind's eye he saw Tessa running up the hill, the sun in her hair as Connor dragged the canoe that had brought them up onto the shore.

 _You didn't say goodbye._

 _We never do._

The car window was cold to the touch. But inside him, he felt his brother close, and it warmed him as though Connor's hand rested on his shoulder.

* * *

"Mac! It's good to see you, man."

"Hey, Joe."

The relief was palpable in Dawson's face, in the warm grasp of his hand on Duncan's arm. He squeezed, as if to reassure himself that MacLeod was real. A cold wind whistled over the porch, promising snow later, and Dawson drew him inside, letting the door shut behind them. "You don't know how hard it was for me to sit here and wait for somebody else to tell me what went down. It's hell to get old, let me tell you."

"Yeah, well, I don't make any promises about making it easy on your replacement."

Dawson chuckled. "I figured. I did warn her."

Duncan's eyebrows rose. "Jiang Li?" The young woman had left him off at the road, wishing him well and waving once to Joe before she'd left them to their reunion.

Dawson gave a half-shrug, but didn't entirely succeed in hiding how hard it had been for him to admit he was at the end of his days as a field Watcher. "I trust her," he said simply. "Come on, I've got a hot shower and some clean clothes with your name on them."

At the moment that sounded like the promise of heaven, but Duncan stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Joe, what about Connor?"

Dawson turned back. His compassion made the grief Duncan had held at bay squeeze in his chest for a moment. Joe knew what it felt like to bury a brother, and that made it harder somehow, made it more real. "Everything's been arranged through the consulate like you asked. Just need you to sign some papers and you can take him back tomorrow, if you want."

Duncan nodded, his throat tight. "Thanks, Joe. I owe you."

But Dawson shook his head. "No, you don't. You coming out of this in one piece is enough for me, my friend. More than enough." He hesitated. "If this is out of line, tell me, but I'll come with you if you want."

Duncan swallowed. The ache in his throat burned fiercely now, and it took him a second to be able to answer. "He'd have liked that. And I'd be glad for the company."

Dawson nodded, touching his arm and turning away, starting down the hall again before either of them could get any more emotional. Duncan was grateful for that, too. He could still feel Connor with him, could almost hear his voice, calm now and free of that bitter grief he'd carried with him in life, as though his kinsman had somehow found peace within him and wanted him to know it. He held that feeling close, guarding it as though it were fragile and might slip from his grasp at any moment, wanting to hold on to it as long as he could.

The hallway ended at a big, open kitchen, a picture window in the dining area looking out onto a sloping garden in back. Trees lay beyond the garden, the sky grey between their dark shapes. "This your place?" he asked, realizing that he had no idea whether Dawson intended to return to England—or wherever Duncan ended up next. The house was comfortable, lived-in, and felt like home.

"Nah, I'm renting it by the week. Nice, though. You can hear yourself think out here."

The wind gusted again, stirring dead leaves into spiral patterns. Duncan thought about how they would smell, their dry sweetness crunching underfoot. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Guest bedroom's that way," Dawson said, gesturing towards another hallway on the other side of the kitchen. "It should be set up for you, but let me know if you need anything."

He stayed in the shower until the water ran cool, relieved beyond the telling of it to finally be free of the stink of Kell and of his own blood. His things waited for him in the closet; Dawson must have sent someone to his hotel for them. Dressed in his own clothes, clean at last, he sat down on the bed, his exhaustion washing over him for long minutes, his eyes drifting closed. He leaned his forehead on his hands and let himself listen to the whistle of the wind outside, the faint sounds of Joe down the hall, rummaging around, doing something in the kitchen.

The smell of coffee reached him, and something cooking—sausage? His stomach growled fiercely.

Hunger won out, and he made himself get up. He freed his sword from its sheath in his spare coat, inspecting the blade; he'd wiped it clean, but it needed proper oiling. Deciding it could wait, he put the blade away and padded down the hall in stocking feet.

Dawson was putting the finishing touches on a pan full of scrambled eggs, adding pepper and what looked like a pinch of basil. A plate of sausages was already on the table, together with bread and butter and a jar of preserves. Duncan's mouth watered. "Smells good. Can I help?"

"You can pour us some of that coffee."

Duncan obliged, and they sat down at the wooden table, starting in on the food without preamble. Duncan found he was ravenous, the big plate of eggs and sausages disappearing rapidly. He ate with focused intent, realizing Dawson was looking at him oddly only as he finished the last bite of food in front of him.

"Guess I was hungry," he said, smiling a little sheepishly.

"Sure looks that way. When was the last time you ate anything?"

Duncan shied away from thinking too closely about the chronology of the last few days. He tore off a piece of bread and bit into it, chewing slowly, then took a sip of his coffee, not quite meeting Joe's eyes. He shrugged. "A while, I guess."

Joe snorted. "Yeah, I'd say so. Well, there's more, so help yourself."

When they'd eaten their fill, Duncan warmed up Joe's coffee and his own, gazing out the window at the intricate dance of the leaves in the garden while Joe read the newspaper. The minutes passed until he forgot to notice them, his thoughts circling the present and the past, reaching back across the centuries and returning to this one, barely skimming the surface of memory, like the wind ruffling the deep waters of the lake. When Joe finally spoke to him, it took him a minute to realize it.

"I'm sorry, I was woolgathering. What did you say?"

"I said I think it's gonna snow later. First time this year."

"Yeah, I think you're right, from the looks of that sky." He pushed himself up from the table, gathering the empty dishes and bringing them to the sink. "I'm gonna go take a walk before things get wet out there. You need me to bring in some wood?"

"Couldn't hurt." Duncan started down the hall. "Hey, Mac—"

He turned back.

"You okay, man?"

Duncan smiled. "I'm fine. Thanks, Joe. For breakfast and everything. Leave the dishes, okay? I'll be back in a bit."

* * *

The temperature dropped even as the sun rose higher. Everything, even the air, felt brittle and sharp with the cold, and his breath huffed in little clouds before him as he ran. The crunch of dead leaves underfoot kept him company, counterpoint to the gusting wind in the trees.

The woods followed the bottom of the hill that sloped away behind Dawson's house, the contour of the landscape guiding him in a winding line to the south. The leaves had fallen thick in the hollows, up to his shins in places, but he barely noticed as the circling of his thoughts returned again to that cold spring. This time, alone with his thoughts, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat in his ears, he let the memory come.

* * *

"Connor, for God's sake, give it a rest!"

"Heh. What's the matter, Duncan?" his kinsman called back. "Can't keep up with the old woman?"

Duncan groaned, pushing his last reserves to make it up the slope of what had to be the tallest hill in Scotland. He'd never been able to keep up with Connor, not when it came to running, and well they both knew it. But they'd been at it now for hours, and surely even Connor had to run out of strength some time.

Reaching the crest of the hill at last, Duncan stopped dead and leaned forward, hands on his knees, drinking in great gulps of air and feeling as though his heart would burst out of his chest. His limbs trembled, chilled as the cold wind hit his sweat-slicked skin. For a minute he thought Connor would keep on running without him, and he was too exhausted to care.

After a minute, though, Connor came back, ambling easily and looking as though he could have turned right around and run back to Ballachulish without a second thought. He was barely breathing hard. At last Duncan felt the tightness in his lungs ease, and he thought maybe he wouldn't die after all. With another groan, he loosened the pack that held their belongings, lowered it to the ground, and let himself collapse. He rolled onto his back on the cold grass and closed his eyes. "You're as mad as old Agnes."

"You'll be sorry if you do that," Connor warned. As if on cue, the muscles of Duncan's left calf tightened up, and he grunted in pain, sucking in air through his teeth. Insult to injury—he swore, and tried to rub it out. "Heh. Told you," Connor said without sympathy. "Here, let me."

He crouched down and stretched Duncan's leg out, ignoring his protest as the cramp seized momentarily, then started to ease as Connor rubbed at it. At last Duncan opened his eyes, the late afternoon sun dazzling in a clear, blue spring sky. He let it paint spots before his vision, watching a circling bird as Connor's hands worked their magic, relief making him relax for the first time since he'd killed the Sassenach that morning. He drew a deep breath and let it out; Connor patted his leg the same way he patted his horse, and let him go, stretching himself out beside Duncan on the grass. They lay side by side letting the sun warm them, momentarily safe from the chill wind that skipped along the ridge.

"So what do you think, Duncan?" Connor said at last. "Do I have a sense of humor, or not?"

Duncan grimaced. "Aye, you do—problem is, you're the only one thinks it's funny."

"You may be right." They lay quiet for another little while. The sun felt good, and Duncan felt like himself again for the first time all day, at peace with the world, inside and out. His eyes started to drift closed.

"Connor?"

"Mm."

"What would happen if you did take too many Quickenings? Does anyone know?"

"I was only making up stories to scare you."

"I know, but don't you think it's possible? If you killed a very old Immortal, one who had taken many heads—how would you absorb all that power? What if it was too much?"

"I suppose you would go mad." Connor didn't sound too concerned, but Duncan opened his eyes, rolling up onto on elbow. A new possibility suggested itself, making the hair on his neck rise.

"Or maybe that other Immortal would take over. Maybe they would take your form, and you'd be gone, or become a ghost." He made a warding sign, shuddering faintly.

Connor shook his head, folding his arms underneath it to make a pillow. "I've never heard of it happening. Ramirez never warned me about anything like that, either, and he used to talk about the old ones all the time."

"I wish I'd met him," Duncan said.

"So do I." Connor fell quiet, and after a minute Duncan thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. He lay back down, mirroring his kinsman's posture, watching bare wisps of clouds drawn thin by the wind. His mind was busy with the implications. The first time he'd killed another Immortal, he hadn't known what was happening, hadn't understood enough to remember anything but his terror and the certainty that he was dying. This time it had been different. This time, he'd understood better what Connor had meant when he talked about absorbing another Immortal's strength and knowledge. It wasn't like becoming another person, exactly, but it had felt like becoming... more, somehow. As if he were not the same person he'd been that morning. It was a disturbing thought, though he wasn't sure exactly how he felt different. It was better now, anyway. Connor must have sensed how on edge he'd been—must have known a good, hard run would help center him.

He glanced at his kinsman, gratitude and fondness for his prickly companion sparking in his breast. He was lucky to have Connor for a teacher. Lucky beyond measure to have found another family, of sorts—yes, it was true, he realized, warmth stealing over him. Connor and he were a family. Somehow, the sting of his father's condemnation didn't hurt as much as it once had, when he even thought about it at all. He'd moved on finally, as Connor had always told him he must. He was Immortal, and that life was behind him.

"What?" Connor said, not opening his eyes. His mouth quirked in that familiar cant, and Duncan realized he'd been gazing at his cousin intently, with God knew what revealed in his face. He knew his expression betrayed him all too often—he lacked Connor's inscrutable reserve. He averted his gaze, feeling his face warm.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"Always thinking," Connor teased him, and opened his eyes at last. "That's good. But don't think so hard you forget which end of the sword you hold on to."

"Which end is it again? I know you showed me." He ducked out of habit, grinning, and the cuff Connor aimed at his head met only air.

"Impudent," Connor said in disgust, sitting up. He surveyed their domain, green hills and rock as far as the eye could see. The sun was touching the ridge to the west. "It's getting cold up here. What do you say we get out of the wind?"

Duncan wasn't looking forward to the long hike back to the village where they'd left the horses, but he was starting to get hungry, so he let Connor pull him to his feet. He shouldered his pack and started back down the hill in the direction they'd come, but Connor stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"This way," he said, canting his head the opposite direction. That smile still played about his lips, though there was a gravity in his eyes, a hint of something Duncan might almost have called sadness, or regret. "I want to show you something."

He led the way along the hilltop for a short distance, then down the opposite side, sure of where he was going; Duncan followed, intrigued, his weariness forgotten. They walked maybe a mile, then Connor turned sharply north, following a depression between two hills. Circling around the base of one, they soon saw a bowl-shaped basin spreading out before them, grassy slopes with a small loch at the bottom. Beside the water stood a small, sturdy house, though no animals gave sign that the owner was home.

The door was solid indeed, heavy timbers that must have taken some effort to bring to this place, an iron bolt guarding it. The little house itself was made of stones, its roof slightly damaged, but also well-wrought. Duncan's suspicions were confirmed when Connor disappeared around the back of the house, then reappeared a few minutes later with a heavy iron key.

Anticipating a warm night's sleep, a dinner of fish and a fire on the hearth, Duncan grinned. "So this is why you wanted to go a day out of our way."

Connor met his grin with one of his own. "I told you to trust me."

Duncan laid a hand on the stones admiringly. "This looks like it could survive many a winter. How long ago did you build it?"

Connor shrugged. "A while ago. Before you were born." He unlocked the bolt, though it took both of them to slide it back. Rust had made it nearly unworkable. At last, the heavy door swung inward, the reddening sun revealing a cot and hearth fallen into neglect, a sturdy wooden table, two chairs, and a cupboard that must have taken two strong ponies and a cart to move. "Why don't you see to the fire, and I'll see to the fish?"

When the sun was down and they had eaten their fill of lake trout broiled over a peat fire, they made short work of washing up. Connor, much to Duncan's pleasure, then produced a small jug of whisky from somewhere in the cottage, and they sat down to sample it with enthusiasm. It was fine indeed, and Duncan might have counted himself wholly content had it not been for his kinsman's pensive, distracted air and his silence, more profound than was usual even for him.

Knowing better than to try to drag it out of him, Duncan pretended not to notice, talking idly of the coming summer and the things they might do, the places they might see. He wanted to return to Italy, his mind still full of the richness and sensuality of that sophisticated, sun-drenched land. Maybe even travel further. He was beginning to understand how big the world was, and he wanted to see more of it—all of it, if he could. "I want to see the land of the Pharaohs some day, too," he said, thinking of Ramirez and wondering what it must be like to live that long, to have seen so much. "Did Ramirez ever take you there?" he asked, hoping to nudge Connor from the taciturn mood that had taken him.

But Connor shook his head and stood up abruptly, something obviously troubling him. "No," he said shortly. "There wasn't time." He went to the fire and stirred it, then used a straw from the floor to light one of the oil lamps. He brought it back and set it on the table, but he didn't sit down again, just stood gazing at Duncan as if he were a stranger. As if the look would have to last him a long time.

"Is something wrong?" Duncan asked at last, knowing this was more than one of Connor's moods.

"No," Connor said, his voice flat. As if he had reconciled himself to something, he sighed, and went to the cupboard in the corner. Duncan watched him as he opened it and removed an oblong bundle, thick with cloth wrappings.

When Connor had laid the bundle on the table and folded back the wrappings to reveal what was inside, Duncan caught his breath.

"Connor," he breathed. "You kept that here?" The sword made his heart beat faster, the firelight dancing on its long, perfect blade.

Connor gave his half-shrug. "Safe as any place else. What do you think?"

Duncan let out the breath he'd been holding. "It's magnificent. Where did you get it?"

"I died with it in my hand." He smiled. "The first time." He reached out and picked up the sword, gazing along its blade for a moment as if lost in memory. Then he reversed his hold, offering the leather grip to Duncan. "Go ahead."

Duncan took the proffered sword, letting it find its balance in his hand. "It's very fine, Connor."

"It's yours. May it guard your life better than it did mine."

Realization dawned. Duncan stilled and met Connor's grey eyes, reading there the irony, the fondness, the sadness—all of them ephemeral next to the cool steel of his teacher's gaze.

"We part ways now," he said, as if there weren't something heavy pressing against his heart. In a flash of insight, he understood. "Because I killed the Englishman."

"Aye, Duncan. Teacher and student no more. I've taught you all that I can. It's time."

The heaviness seemed to drag at him, and Duncan looked at the sword in his hand, then carefully laid it down. "But I want to stay with you," he said, before he could stop himself. For a second he was afraid to look at Connor, dreading what he'd see in his face. But Connor made a soft sound like a laugh, and his expression was not unkind.

"Look on the bright side, Duncan. No more running!"

Duncan didn't feel much like laughing, but he forced himself to smile, to pretend that he was ready for this, as he should have been. He should have guessed. Connor had told him more times than he could count that Immortals were solitary creatures, lone wolves. Had impressed upon him time after time that to trust another Immortal was to die a fool, that Immortal friendships were as rare as diamonds in the Highlands, and as likely to attract attention. He should have known. He'd thought he and Connor were different.

"Duncan," Connor said, and he knew from the way his kinsman said his name that he'd done a poor job of hiding how he felt. "It has to be this way."

The kindness made heat burn across his eyes, and Duncan averted his face, concentrating on bundling the MacLeod sword carefully in its wrappings. Mother of God, he was not going to start crying like a girl, not over this. Cruelty would have been easier to take than Connor's pity.

"I won't miss your cooking, that's for sure," he said at last.

"Heh. And I won't miss your snoring."

Duncan's head came up. "I do not snore. That's you!"

"Then how come I'm awake when I hear it?"

"I think you're dreaming you're awake." He found a smile, able to do it now. "And I think you want a better chance with the women."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Connor admitted. Then he held out his hand, and Duncan took it, and Connor pulled him close, hugged him tight for the length of a heartbeat, two. "You've been good for me, my friend. Don't change too much, will you?"

In the morning, they parted ways on the shore of the lake the same way they always had, no goodbyes spoken between them.

* * *

The snow was starting to fall as he pushed himself up the slope towards Dawson's backyard, the first flakes melting on his face as he left the trees at the bottom of the garden. He finally stopped running when he reached the old birdbath, tilting his head back to let the snowflakes settle gently on his eyelids, his lips. Like a kid, he opened his mouth and caught a big one on his tongue, feeling it melt away like cool cotton candy.

The run had done him good, though he was definitely going to need another shower. He'd pushed himself as if Connor were with him, like the old days—running a little ahead of him, never quite giving Duncan the chance to catch up, but not widening the distance, either. Challenging him, as Connor had always done.

That first parting had been hard; it had been more than seventy years before he'd seen Connor again, and that had hurt more than he'd admitted even to himself. He hadn't really understood, not then—not until he'd been forced to let Richie go the same way. But they'd been given a gift, all of them, in finding love and family among their kind, and he chose to remember that Connor had said he'd been good for him. Had called him his true brother.

There was wetness on his face—far more than could be accounted for by the falling snow—and Duncan wiped his cheeks, wondering how long he'd been crying. His heart felt raw, but still he could feel Connor with him, and that, too, felt like a gift of immeasurable price, a kindness he couldn't refuse. He could only accept it. Whatever magic Connor had wrought with his death, whatever power he had lent to Duncan's sword in his battle with Kell, his kinsman had ever defied explanation. That it should have been the same in death as in life shouldn't have surprised him.

He sat on a wooden bench, tilting his face up until the tears stopped at last of their own accord, salt tracks mingling with the melted snow. By the time he pushed himself to his feet again he was shivering a little, anticipating a shower and a warm fire, maybe a spot of whiskey with Joe.

The buzz hit him before he'd gone ten steps. He tensed. Friend, or foe? Methos, maybe. Probably.

 _Joe._

He ran for the house.

* * *

"Methos!" Duncan pulled himself up short halfway up the steps, sucking in a breath as his heart stopped pounding quite so hard. Methos had strolled out onto the back deck as he started up the wooden stairs, and now he stood there looking down, that familiar amusement quirking the corners of his eyes and mouth. Duncan felt suddenly foolish, conscious of his wet clothing, wondering whether it showed on his face that he'd been crying. "Joe didn't tell me you were coming."

"Obviously," Methos said, as if he'd come out onto the deck with the particular hope of seeing the look on Duncan's face and found it the funniest thing he'd seen in weeks.

Irritation flashed through Duncan. "Glad I'm good for keeping you amused."

"Why do you think I like you so much?"

He tried to stay annoyed, but he'd lost the knack for it somewhere in the past few years. Methos' smile was catching. He found himself grinning a little in spite of himself. It'd been like that with Connor, too. In a flash of insight, he recognized the parallels in the roles the two men had played in his life—the way both of them had pushed him, challenged him. The way they'd stuck their noses in and annoyed him and interfered until he wanted to shake them both sometimes. How good it had felt, those rare occasions when circumstance had given him a brother in arms to guard his back for a little while. And if Connor was family, what did that make Methos?

"We going to stand out here in the snow all day, or do you think you might come in?" Methos asked at last.

"Maybe if you ask very nicely," Duncan suggested, and Methos' grin widened a fraction.

"And when have you ever known me to ask for anything nicely?"

"Well, now that you mention it..." He made a face, and Methos laughed outright.

"Get in here, will you? Joe's tending bar, and you're making me miss it."

Heart full, hope a small spark inside him, Duncan came the rest of the way up the steps and followed Methos inside.

* * *

"Okay, smartass," Joe was saying, "tell me again how it is that I've never heard of this stuff, if it was as good as you say?"

"The Europeans always had better PR. Ask Pythagoras! Same as today, it's all in the marketing. Who remembers that the Pentium chip was invented by an Indian guy? They invented the zero, too, not to mention Pi."

"And chess," Duncan put in.

Methos nodded and made a 'there you go' gesture. "See?"

Joe looked skeptical. "Yeah, but cognac? I don't know. What do you think, Mac? Is this guy full of crap, or is this for real?"

"Hmm, I dunno. I seem to think I've read it somewhere. But whether it was in a history book or a work of fiction, I couldn't tell you."

Methos shook his head in despair. "See, you assume these are mutually exclusive things, and that's where you make your mistake. There's a reason the word 'story' is part of 'history.'" He sipped at his cognac, then grinned and leaned back in his chair again, waving airily. "Think about it. For all you know, half the things you read in history books are based on stories I made up."

"Now there's a comforting thought," Duncan said dryly.

Joe nodded in satisfaction. "Told you he was making it up."

"Hey, I never said that," protested Methos. He was so indignant, Duncan couldn't help grinning. Methos gave a long-suffering sigh. "I swear, the wisdom of the ages is wasted on you two."

"Wisdom of the ages, my ass," Duncan muttered _sotto voce,_ and Joe broke up, chuckling.

The corner of Methos' mouth twitched, giving him away. He glanced at Joe. "No matter what we talk about, we always seem to end up discussing his ass, you notice that?"

Joe laughed harder, then shook his head and tossed back the rest of his whiskey. "I am not touching that one with a ten-foot pole," he declared. Duncan exchanged a glance with Methos, unable to help himself; he knew the grin on Methos' face was echoed on his own. He straightened his expression with effort, and concentrated on his own drink, deciding plausible deniability was the safest course.

Methos got up and added another log to the fire, the embers popping softly as they shifted. Sparks danced and then drifted up the chimney like snowflakes in reverse. Duncan's eyes strayed to Methos' familiar form, the broad, straight line of his shoulders, the worn jeans that hugged his lean hips and thighs as he crouched before the fireplace. He let himself appreciate the view for a few brief moments, then looked away, watching the snow fall thickly outside the window. It had been falling for at least two hours now; it would be thick on the ground come morning.

He sensed Methos close by.

"You okay?"

Duncan looked up, smiling a little. "You guys keep asking me that. Yeah, I'm fine. Is that what this is about?" He looked at Joe, who was watching them. "You don't have to worry, okay? I'm gonna be fine."

Joe shook his head. "It's not about anything. Thought you could use a rest, that's all. Been too long."

Duncan nodded. "Yeah, it has. And I appreciate this." He gestured at the room, the fire, the drinks, the three of them together like it was old times. "Really, I do. I won't forget it. But you guys don't have to baby-sit me. Kell is nothing but a bad memory, and Connor and I made our peace." Joe and Methos exchanged a look, as if he'd said something disingenuous. Restless and uncomfortable at the sudden attention, he got to his feet and moved a few paces away. "What?"

Methos closed the distance between them a little. "Nothing, Mac. And nobody's babysitting you." He hesitated. Then, "We thought maybe you'd want to talk, is all."

Duncan looked into his glass, then sipped at his scotch—one Connor had favored. It tasted better than he remembered. "What's there to talk about? I'd rather remember the way he was. The good times we had."

"You guys sure made a name for yourselves back when," said Joe.

"That we did," Duncan said with a faint smile. His eyes lost their focus for a moment, and he tilted his head a little, not quite listening for a voice just out of hearing. He thought maybe there was an answer somewhere, not in words, but in the ephemeral feeling of not-aloneness that had been with him all day.

"I met him in Krakow, during the war," Methos said matter-of-factly, settling himself once more in his armchair, hands folded on his middle with the snifter resting between them. "I was a teacher then. He helped me and two friends of mine escape arrest when the Gestapo came." He met Duncan's surprised look with a half-smile and a challenging eyebrow. "Never told you about that, did he?"

"As a matter of fact, no," Duncan said. "And neither did you." He hadn't been surprised that Methos had known Connor; he was long past being surprised by Methos' oblique connections to people in his life. But he was surprised Methos would volunteer a story about his own past. In all the years Duncan had known him, Methos had told stories about famous people and not-so-famous, about other Immortals—never about himself.

"Well, do you want to hear this story or not?"

"I don't know, do I?"

"Your call." Methos' half-smile had spread to his eyes, almost a dare. He looked pointedly at Duncan's empty chair.

Knowing himself outgunned, Duncan poured himself another finger of scotch and sat down, settling in for the duration.

* * *

Duncan didn't quite know how it had happened, that Methos' story about Connor had led to one of his own, which had reminded him of that time in London with the redhead, and before he knew it the clock over the mantel was chiming twelve. He'd talked himself hoarse, and his friends had been good listeners, asking questions and making him laugh, laughing with him over some of the more ridiculous antics he and Connor had pulled.

At last he wound down, and the three of them sat in companionable silence, listening to John Lee Hooker and the occasional pop of the fire. Restlessness stirring, Duncan rose and went to the window again, looking out. A soft blanket of white had transformed the yard in front of the house, pristine and glittering softly in the starlight. The evergreens were draped in feathery veils like the delicate folds of a bride's lace.

He missed those days. It hadn't all been fun, of course, but it seemed easy now to remember the good times, the mischief he'd gotten into with Connor and Fitz, with Amanda. It had been a long time since he'd been able to let go like that, to have fun and forget for a while. He wondered when he'd changed so much, when he'd become so serious. It wasn't just losing Tessa, Fitz. It wasn't any one thing. Somehow, the losses seemed to accumulate, as if the heart never quite recovered entirely, and after a while it wore you down to the bone. He'd been close to that for such a long time now, he almost couldn't remember what it was like to feel differently.

An image of Connor's face that time in New York flashed in his thoughts. He'd known that day that something was badly wrong, but he hadn't known what to say to change it, to make things better for him. He still didn't know what he could have said—because it wasn't something that words could heal. Even time couldn't heal it, not really. Losing Darius, Tessa, Fitz—Richie—every death had taken its price from his flesh, from his heart, and no passage of years was ever going to erase that. If he lived to be a thousand, he would still miss Tessa sometimes. Would still regret the terrible mistakes he'd made with Kate. Would still wish for one more day with Connor, one more year, one more lifetime.

And if words and time couldn't keep you from lying down under that weight, from giving up, then what was the answer? What was Amanda's secret? And Methos'?

He glanced at his enigmatic friend, at his long, lean form stretched out in the armchair as if the furniture had been molded to him, at the strong, sharp lines of his profile limned by firelight. His changeable eyes were closed now, and he looked to be asleep, though Duncan wouldn't have staked his life on that. He knew from experience that it was a mistake to ever forget Methos' hidden sharp edges.

But Methos had loved Alexa, sharp edges or no, secret or no, and Duncan knew he had grieved hard for her, too. The answer wasn't to hold yourself apart, as Connor had tried to do. As he himself had tried to do these last few years. He'd always known that isolation wasn't the answer—he'd seen too many times what happened to Immortals who stopped caring—but he'd done his best to walk the middle path, to care a little less, love a little less, thinking that he could protect his friends. That he could protect himself. He'd kept those he cared about the most at arm's length and done his best to learn to live that way.

He realized only now that that was exactly what Connor had tried to do. With Rachael. With him. Since Brenda had died, especially, but before then, too. And he did not want to follow Connor's path.

The sound of Joe's snores reached him. His friend was fast asleep, head lolling against the chair. If Methos had been asleep, the sound had woken him; he met Duncan's eyes, his mouth curving in an indulgent smile. He rose from the chair, stretching. "I'll get this one to bed." He glanced at the clock. "It's late. You should go too."

"Yeah." Duncan's voice was still rough from talking so much. "Long day tomorrow."

Methos nodded, his hazel eyes changing colors in the firelight. For a moment Duncan thought he was going to say something; he must have thought better of it, for he turned away.

"I'm going outside for a bit," Duncan said, and didn't wait to see if Methos turned back. He didn't feel like explaining himself or enduring one of Methos' pithy remarks anyway.

He pulled a coat from the hall closet and shrugged it on, stepping out into the white stillness of the night.

The clean smell of the snow and the trees filled his lungs, clearing his head of the warm lethargy the fire and the scotch had spread over him. He stepped off the porch and down the steps, leaving deep footprints in the thick layer of snow. Breathing the night in deeply, he kept going across the yard to the street, the crunch of his footsteps seemingly loud in the hushed stillness.

The snow was deeper than his boots. It worked its way under the cuffs of his jeans and soaked through the tops of his socks, but he didn't mind; the cold felt welcome, and his feet were warm enough. He put his hands in the pockets of Joe's coat and followed the pools of light from one street lamp to the next, walking up the hill towards the cul de sac at the end of the street. Cold numbed his ears and cheeks and the tip of his nose. He kept breathing deeply as he walked, the scents of winter familiar and invigorating, making him feel alive. Young. Like the world was full of possibility, and he'd forgotten that for too long.

 _That's right, Duncan. You remember._

"I almost didn't," he said to the night. "I almost—"

 _But you didn't, my friend. And you won't. You're stronger than I was. You know the secret. You said it yourself—it's not our beloved dead who hold us in this world, it's the living._

"I don't understand why you couldn't see it," he whispered. His throat ached, and he wanted to go back to that rooftop and throw his sword and Connor's far away, to hold on to him and keep him in this life with the sheer force of his will.

 _Maybe I did see it. But I wanted you to live, and I made a choice. Apart, he could use us against each other. Together we were unstoppable. And I'll always be with you now, Donnchaidh. To the end._

Duncan caught his breath. He stood in the snowy street and closed his eyes, listening now for all he was worth. _Every day, every breath we took was toward this end._ Connor's words came back to him, and he understood, too well. If he'd been angry with Connor for giving up, for making him the instrument of his despair, he couldn't sustain it. He'd felt the same. Had asked the same of a brother, on his knees that rainy night at the racetrack.

But he wasn't Connor, and his path was different. He'd chosen it every time he'd refused to change his name—every time he'd refused to believe in fate or prophecy, and chosen hope instead. Every time he'd chosen to love in the face of what he was.

In his mind's eye, he seemed to see Connor nodding at him, smiling.

 _I love you, too, you know. Even if you do have all the fun and most of the good women._

A short, breathless sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob. His fists clenched in the pockets of Joe's coat.

 _Duncan._

"Connor," he whispered at last, his voice choked.

Only silence answered him, and the faint sigh of the wind high in the trees.

* * *

The house was quiet, the ticking of the mantel clock keeping time to the beating of his heart. Methos, too, had gone to bed.

Duncan hung up Joe's coat and pulled off his boots in the front hall, placing them quietly on the wood floor. Methos must have put out the last embers of the fire and closed the flue, for the living room was dark. Starlight from the picture window provided the only light in the house.

Following the faint, grey outlines of shapes, he made his way into the kitchen and down the hall towards the guest rooms. Methos' buzz brushed along his nerves, instinct warning him that he was in danger, intellect countering with the certainty that this was a friend. The awareness eased at last, though he felt painfully aware of Methos' presence in other ways; he couldn't help the way his heart hurt, a sweet ache of certainty that had started the moment he'd seen Methos on the back deck and that had blossomed into full reality when he'd felt the buzz hit him again on the front walk, moments before. He'd let so much time go by. They'd barely touched upon the edges of possibility, had just begun to explore the truths that lay between them when fate had intervened: first Alexa, then Jacob, the Horsemen—they'd let months become years, become very nearly forever.

Except he didn't believe in fate. He'd almost forgotten that. And now that he'd remembered, he had a lot of time to make up for.

He stopped outside the door to Methos' room, listening. All he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, his own breathing, not quite steady. He touched the doorknob. A frisson of fear stabbed through him, all the things that might go wrong flashing through his mind at once, and for a second he couldn't breathe, so great was the immensity of his arrogance. He couldn't even name all the ways in which this might end up hurting one or both of them.

Doesn't matter, he told himself. Not any more. You've run from this long enough.

The door opened soundlessly beneath his hand.

The room was smaller than his, the single window offering little in the way of light. He closed the door quietly behind him. Blind, he made himself breathe and listened, letting his other senses reach out.

Sheets rustled. "Mac?"

Hope, held in abeyance for so long, bloomed warm and heady in his chest. Duncan caught his breath, and it was all he could do not to laugh at the confusion in Methos' voice. "Yeah, it's me," he said softly, moving forward towards the bed. The hint of starlight showed him Methos' pale form as he sat up, his white T-shirt visible in the shadows.

"Everything okay? Something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's okay." His heart pounded hard now against his chest, but it wasn't fear any more. He reached the bed and sat down, seeing the startled flash of Methos' eyes as they widened, feeling the press of his friend's leg against his hip. His stomach fluttered and turned over on itself, and he had to draw a steadying breath before he could reach out. He found Methos' arms and grasped them, ignoring the other man's surprised jump. "Methos." He breathed in again, and this time he caught Methos' scent, warm and heady and too-long missed.

"Mac, what's this about?" Methos said, holding himself still under Duncan's grip—but there was a breathless note in his voice, under the confusion and wariness, that spoke directly to Duncan's heart.

"It's about you and me not wasting any more time, my friend." His hands ran up Methos' arms of their own accord, feeling the strength, the warm silk of his skin. Once he'd started touching Methos, he didn't want to stop. One hand found the curve of Methos' neck, and the feel of the racing pulse against the heel of his palm made his own jump unsteadily. "Okay?" he asked, all he could manage. He felt as though he might fly apart with the sudden fierce ache of his desire to touch him, to be touched. He was shaking.

Methos drew a breath, let it out. It sounded like a sigh. Then he touched Duncan's face, and his hand was shaking, too. "Come here," he said, and his voice sounded different, like that of a man who'd been given unexpected mercy.

It had been a long time for them, but that didn't matter—they fit like sword and sheath, like it had never been a question whether they would touch each other again. Duncan didn't remember Methos' skin being so soft, his mouth being so hot—he didn't remember this painful mix of heat and vulnerability in the way Methos pressed against him, the way he gasped and moaned under the caress of Duncan's mouth. A faint shakiness held both of them in its thrall, tremors that took them by turns for no reason at all, that neither of them seemed quite able to control. It had been good before, that heart-pounding mix of sex and friendship and risk—but never like this.

He came with Methos on top of him, their hands clasped together around their mutual need, Methos' mouth claiming his again and again as if he were making up for lost time. The sound Duncan made when release took him made Methos shudder against him, muffling his cry of pleasure against Duncan's shoulder. That, too, was new, and he cradled the back of Methos' head, instinctively protective, the prickle of Methos' hair against his palm.

They'd barely regained breath when Methos moaned softly and shifted in his arms, hardening against Duncan's thigh. "Mac, please—" His breath hitched. He rubbed his head against the side of Duncan's neck. "It's been so long."

Sweat broke out on Duncan's chest, his groin, and he felt himself grow hard again in answer. He hadn't thought beyond lying down in this bed with him, but memory flashed through him, a powerful sense-memory he'd denied for years. He stroked Methos' hair, his back, pressing his mouth to his sweat-damp temple, eyes closing. He wanted it too, so much he couldn't breathe properly. "Okay," he whispered, and kissed him again. "Okay."

He shifted. Methos was already moving, pushing the blankets down out of the way. His eagerness transmitted itself directly to Duncan's body, making him ache with the sudden resurgence of arousal. "Mac," Methos murmured, reaching for him.

Duncan's hands were shaking again, his heart thundering as if he'd been running. He stroked Methos' flanks, the insides of his thighs, parting his legs. For an instant he couldn't move, caught between hunger and practicality, and the need to give pleasure, not pain.

"Come here," Methos demanded, pulling him, urging him up. Methos' hands on his waist, his rump, Methos' sweat-slicked skin against his own, and his mouth—oh, God, his mouth, sweet and hot and greedy on Duncan, making the sweat break out on his thighs, making him gasp and bite back a moan. Then Methos let him go and spread his legs, his eyes hot in the faint starlight.

They fluttered closed when Duncan pressed against him, breaching his body slowly, so slowly. Methos' breath hitched again, that sweetly vulnerable sound, then he let it out, a slow, controlled exhalation. The tight ring of muscle eased, and Duncan felt himself sheathed, felt himself held close, and it was nothing like his memory.

"God," he managed, and shuddered, unable to help himself.

Methos breathed fast now, his body yielding in every way a man could yield. His cock pressed into Duncan's belly, slippery with fluid; after a long, measureless time, he rocked gently against the pressure of Duncan inside of him. Making a muffled, choked sound, he moved a second time, a little harder, then writhed against him with a soft moan. "Duncan." He shuddered and threw his head back, starting to rock against him.

He protested wordlessly when Duncan tried to stop, holding on as if letting go were not an option. Already half gone himself, Duncan could only give in, could only seek the haven of Methos' body again and again, could only close his eyes and bury his face against Methos' neck as he gave himself to his own desperate hunger, to the harsh sound of Methos' panting breaths against his ear, Methos' body like wet silk gripping him, hands holding tight, urging him on, skin against skin—God, Methos was right, it was too much.

Methos shuddered then, coming against him, breath caught in his throat. At last, Duncan let himself draw a deep breath of his own.

"Methos," he breathed, the name dissolving into a soft moan as orgasm rushed over him, nerves firing in wave after wave, Methos' face hot and wet against his palm.

* * *

Cloud cover hid even the stars in the early hours; they lay in darkness, not sleeping, not really talking, either, mostly learning each other by touch.

This, too, was new. They'd never slept in the same bed before—not all night, anyway—and they'd certainly never curled together like lovers, bodies touching in companionship rather than arousal. Duncan didn't know what name to put to all the feelings inside of him. He was in uncharted waters, the vast deep stretching away beneath him.

Maybe Methos felt the same. Maybe that's why they had to speak to each other in the language of touch now, rather than words—because their old patterns of communication couldn't sustain the truth they'd finally spoken with their bodies, with their hands and their hearts in the dark.

He nestled his foot between Methos', stroking an instep lazily with his toe. The rumble of the snow plows had come and gone. His arm was asleep under the weight of Methos' shoulders, but he thought maybe Methos was close to drifting off and didn't want to move him.

He was mostly asleep himself when Methos stirred, shifting against him. Duncan stroked his neck softly to let him know he was awake, too.

"What time is it?" Methos murmured.

"Dunno. Early, I think. Still a couple of hours before morning."

"Mm. Good, because you're very comfortable." Methos stretched against him, and blood finally began to return to Duncan's arm. He flexed his hand a couple times to increase the flow.

Methos' hand closed around his wrist, rubbing gently. He shifted his weight off Duncan's arm, and stroked the inside of his forearm, up and down. "Sorry. Was I cutting off your circulation?"

"Maybe a little."

"Come here, then."

Methos' massage of his wrist and arm led to Duncan lying on his stomach while Methos rubbed his neck and shoulders, his strong fingers rousing Duncan's sincere desire to purr.

"Mmm. Could you please never stop doing that?"

Methos' fingertips strayed to his hair, slipping gently through it. Duncan could hear the smile in his response. "I warn you, my services are very expensive, _Monsieur."_

 _"Monsieur_ doesn't mind."

"Ah. Loaded then, is he?" They were still speaking in low tones.

"Swiss accounts," Duncan agreed, his eyes closed. "Long-term investments."

 _"Le masseur_ thinks _Monsieur_ doesn't know the meaning of 'long-term investments.'"

Duncan smiled against his folded hands. "Well, then, you can underwrite me."

"Hmm, I don't know... are you a good risk?"

"Some say honorable to a fault."

Methos stopped rubbing his neck. "Really? Who says that?"

Duncan opened one eye. He could make out Methos' outline, propped on one elbow. "As if you didn't know," he said, and moved. He was fast enough to effectively pin Methos' arms and one of his legs. Methos squirmed and protested, trying to find a vulnerable spot with his heel; Duncan tightened his hold, nuzzling Methos' throat in compensation. "Shh! D'you want to wake Joe?"

Methos moved against him suggestively. "Why, am I too much for you to handle on your own?" There was a dark, dangerous note in his voice that Duncan liked very much.

"I think I can manage," he said. He found Methos' lips and kissed him deeply, relaxing his hold to stroke Methos' face, the soft hair at his temples. Though he half-expected some form of payback, Methos didn't take advantage of his new freedom, just kissed him back with renewed intensity. Duncan felt Methos' touch on his neck, his warm hands unexpectedly gentle, and a wave of tenderness came over him, an ache in the center of his chest. He broke the kiss and drew a breath that wasn't quite steady.

"Methos—"

But Methos looked no better off, his eyes wide with the same helplessness he felt. "Yeah," Methos said hoarsely. Duncan could feel Methos' heart beating hard against his ribs, counterpoint to his own. "It's okay," he said, and Duncan wasn't sure which of them he was trying to convince. They were kissing again, then, and he couldn't think any more.

They learned each other anew in the dark, tasting the salt on each other's skin, shivering in the coolness of the room and warming each other with their hands. Duncan pulled the covers up over them and burrowed underneath. He took Methos' cock into his mouth, tongue exploring every part of him until Methos shuddered beneath him, his hands a plea on Duncan's neck.

He held Methos' hips down and made him come, feeling Methos curl around him, the warm silk of his thighs against his shoulders as Duncan swallowed the bittersweet fluid Methos spilled into his throat. Methos pulled him up then so they were lying face to face, cocooned in blankets as his hand found the needy steel of Duncan's cock. He watched Duncan's face as he touched him, kissed his eyelids when the pleasure took him.

After, they stayed like that, face to face, their knees brushing; when Duncan slept at last, he felt Methos' hand resting on the back of his head.

* * *

He woke in the grey light of dawn, crossing the border between sleep and awareness in the space of an instant. His heart beat too fast, as though some danger had woken him. He lay still, breathing silently. Then the urgency he felt crystallized, and he remembered: Joe.

Methos slept with his back against Duncan's chest, his hair sticking up in every direction, one foot between Duncan's for warmth. One of his long, elegant hands lay on the pillow in front of him. They both smelled like a brothel.

Duncan closed his eyes and buried his nose in Methos' mussed hair, breathing deeply. For long moments he stayed like that, wanting to wrap an arm around Methos' waist, not wanting to wake him. He longed to pull him closer and go back to sleep, to stay in that bed with him all day, and maybe for a few lifetimes after that.

Knowing that was impossible, he sighed at last and opened his eyes. He didn't mind Joe knowing—he suspected it wouldn't come as a complete shock—but it was one thing to tell him as a friend, and quite another to let him walk in on them unsuspecting. He couldn't thank his friend's generosity that way.

They had a long journey ahead of them, too; today was the day he would take Connor back to the Highlands.

Reluctantly, he eased from the bed, gooseflesh prickling in the chilly air. He tucked the blankets around Methos, then searched around for his clothes, dressing as quickly as he could. Methos was still dead to the world when he crept from the room.

He showered and dressed, trying not to think too much. He couldn't let himself dwell on the previous night, not now; there was too much he had to do, and thoughts of Methos would drive him out of his head if he let them. No telling how Methos would feel in the light of day, how things might have changed between them, and even if his heart was telling him one thing, his head couldn't quite trust it yet. Dwelling on it would only tie him in knots; whatever happened, he'd made his choice and he couldn't regret it.

Still moving quietly, he went into the kitchen and put coffee on, then opened the fridge. He glanced at the clock; it was early yet, at least an hour before he could hope to reach anyone at the consulate, or his travel agent.

Some investigation revealed a bag of new potatoes and the makings for mushroom and cheese omelets. Getting out the things he needed, he set to work.

* * *

"My friend, you are welcome at my house any time," Joe said, making his way into the kitchen. "A guy could get used to this."

Duncan turned from the window, where he'd been watching the birds wrangle the last few seeds from an old birdfeeder. "My pleasure," he said, smiling. He got up, taking his cup with him. "Have a seat, let me fix you a plate. Coffee?"

"By all means. Don't have to ask me twice."

They talked easily as they ate, about the town mainly, and if Duncan wondered how long Joe had been living there, he didn't ask. They hadn't yet broached the subject of the Sanctuary and Joe's involvement with it, nor what would become of that place now that Kell had proven their folly in thinking that anyone could stop the Game.

That would keep for another day. His trust in Joe Dawson had been hard won and severely tested, but he'd sworn an oath to himself after Ahriman that he wouldn't doubt Joe again, and the Watchers were his territory.

"So, what's the plan?" Joe asked at last.

"I've got us on a six o'clock flight out of Boston. I figure if we leave by two or so, that should give us plenty of time."

Joe nodded. "How long a drive is it to Glenfinnan? Five hours or so?"

"About that, yeah. I arranged for the funeral director to meet us around two o'clock tomorrow. We can stay at Rachel's place tomorrow night, if that's all right."

"Sure, Mac. Just do me a favor and don't get arrested this time, okay?"

Duncan laughed a little. "I really will try."

Soft footfalls came down the hall and Methos appeared in the doorway, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. His skin was pink from the shower, and he wore a thick grey sweater over his jeans. Bright red socks completed the look. "Will try what?" He squinted at the clock over the stove. "Good lord, is it really ten-thirty? You people are far too awake."

"Joe's trying to keep me out of trouble," Duncan said, and he was proud of himself for how normal his voice sounded. His face was a little too warm, though, and he couldn't look at Methos for long, the urge to haul him back to bed so strong he could taste it. "There's coffee," he said, getting up. "You want an omelet?"

"Twist my arm. Are there tomatoes?"

That was Methos, all right. Duncan fought a smile, exchanging a glance with Joe.

"On the counter over there," Joe told him. While Methos poured himself coffee, Duncan went and got the tomato, then busied himself at the stove like it was the old days in Seacouver. He was glad of the distraction. His pulse felt like it must be visible at his throat. He was painfully aware of Joe's sharp gaze and wondered how obvious they were.

Methos gave the omelet his full attention, and the three of them lapsed into companionable silence as he ate, Joe watching the kids in the next yard throwing snowballs at each other while Duncan started cleaning up the kitchen.

"So, what's up?" Methos said at last, finishing off the last bit of melted cheese and licking his fork as Duncan came back to the table. "It got awful quiet when I came in here. A guy could get paranoid."

Duncan stilled, coffee halfway to his lips. He glanced up, meeting Methos' questioning look. A little frown touched Methos' expression, and Duncan had to look away. He sipped at the coffee, not tasting it; he could feel Joe's eyes on him.

"I'm taking Connor back to be buried in the Highlands. He'd want to be with Heather. Joe's coming with." He wanted to meet Methos' gaze, but he couldn't quite make himself do it. "We were discussing travel plans, that's all."

"Mm, I see." A pause. "And might I ask if there might be another seat on that plane?"

Duncan looked up, feeling a sudden release of pressure in his chest, unexpected and a little painful. Methos was watching him, the familiar, ironic cant to his eyebrows, his mouth—but his eyes were clear, amber-bright in the sun. "I bought three," Duncan confessed. He could feel the blood rushing in his veins, his pulse loud in his own ears.

"Did you?" The hint of a smile danced now in those hazel eyes, played about Methos' lips. "Glad to hear it."

He'd been looking into Methos' eyes too long, he knew he had, and what was written on his face he couldn't have said. Enough, he guessed, and couldn't care. His mouth curved in spite of every effort he made to control it.

"Uh, guys?" Joe said, chuckling, breaking the moment at last. "Is there something you two want to tell me?"

* * *

The journey that took him and Connor home was a long one, but his friends were with him, and that made it easier.

 _Scotland will always be Scotland._

Connor had been right about that; the Highlands didn't change. The roads were paved now, and a car would get you there faster than a horse—but not by much. It still felt like home, and the hills he and Connor had ridden over still felt like they would take you to the top of the world if you could ride far enough, the same rocky slopes running ever upward towards the sky.

Methos and Joe had stood beside him as he'd laid the MacLeod sword in Connor's arms, as he'd kissed him on the forehead. There'd been no priest. They'd watched him lowered into the ground, then Duncan had sent his friends back down to the car to get warm while he covered the casket himself.

It was cold up on the hillside in spite of the bright afternoon sun, but the exertion had warmed him, and he didn't feel it. He read the stone they'd put up, thinking that Connor would have liked it. Beloved husband of Heather. He was that, first and always, though she'd died before Duncan was born. Still, it should have said so much more.

"I hope you found peace, my friend," he said at last. He started to turn, but something squeezed in his chest and he had to look back one last time. Maybe he should say goodbye, he thought. One last time, for all the times they hadn't. But he smiled a little at the thought of what Connor would have said to that, and turned back down the hill, where his friends were waiting.

  
 _The End_

**Author's Note:**

> Suze issued the Challenge: "I'm looking for a story. It's about Duncan MacLeod, the man who wouldn't give up against Kell. The Duncan MacLeod who took a horrible beating, and wouldn't give up. The Duncan MacLeod who took mortal wounds and wouldn't give up. The Duncan MacLeod who, by sheer willpower, pulled himself up from his knees and called Kell back for more. Not once, but again and again, until he won. It's a story about a man who stands at his cousin's grave and grieves, but isn't bleeding and battered inside. A man who has already begun to heal himself. A strong, self-aware man who, after over four hundred years, has learned something new about himself. It's a story about a man who will never again, no matter how long he lives, ever be tempted to give up on anything, or anyone he cares about. It's a story about a man who believes in himself.
> 
> "I've read enough stories about a battered, wounded Duncan crawling to Methos for healing and comfort and shelter. I want to read a story about a strong, capable, *healed* Duncan MacLeod who has made his journey through hell and come out the other side whole. I want to see that Duncan MacLeod show up at Methos' door to reclaim what was, and always will be his -- Methos.
> 
> "Anybody got one?"
> 
> I didn't think I had any more post-Endgame stuff in my brain, but something about it must have been cooking away back there. Then I read one of Basingstoke's excellent codas to Waters of Life and Death, and suddenly the desire to write Connor seized me, big time.


End file.
